The Game
by Beyond-The-Winter
Summary: America finds out about a game his states have been playing when he hasn't been looking, and finds out that they aren't as innocent as hoped.  T to be safe, rating might move up later.
1. Chapter 1

**Story:** The Game

**Description:** America finds out about a game his states have been playing when he hasn't been looking, and finds out that they aren't as innocent as hoped.

**AN: **Um, hi there. I'm Beyond-The-Winter, and this here is the beginning of my first fan fiction. ^^ Um, please be nice, but don't be afraid to criticize me on anything- I want to get better at writing, and all that good stuff.

Anyway, onto The Game.

The room was softly lit, with deep maroon walls, and amber colored light fixtures jutted out every couple feet, creating a calm ambiance. There were plush chairs settled around a huge fireplace on the south end, cased in terracotta and lightly carved in a Mexican-inspired design. There was a mural on the north wall of a forest shielding a placid lake, unbroken even by the rows of bookshelves- indeed, the shelves appeared to be little cabins dotting the quiet woods. The west wall was not a wall at all, but a vast window what would have over-looked a contemporary sculpture garden, but was now shrouded in equally vast velvet maroon curtains that seemed to be brushed with images of cowboys, horses and jutting rock formations. The west wall held only doors; doors that seemed comically small for the largeness of the room. And the room _was_ large. It had to be. This is where America gathered his children.

America heaved a great sigh. It wasn't easy to keep a calm atmosphere when all fifty states were home, and most days he would even encourage the chaos, but this day the laughter and fidgeting were only making things worse. This day was not a happy one, and there was a matter to discuss which was- in his opinion- a disturbing matter. There they were, fifty heads bobbing, swaying, and twitching to their own beats, occasionally bumping or smashing into one another, causing fits of giggles and (at best) half-angry words. America watched their interaction sadly for a moment; how innocent they seemed! How happy and satisfied! How could they have done what was accused of them? But the evidence was before him, they were guilty, all of them, he knew, but he needed to hear the truth from their mouths. They were gathered here, around a gigantic mahogany table, unaware of why the meeting was called.

"Texas." America called, his voice having become loud by nature to be heard over the dull roar of conversation that plagued these get-togethers. His best efforts to shush them before-hand had not worked, but when the Lone-Star State was selected, all of them looked at America expectantly as if they were aware of the gravity of where his attention fell.

"Yes, Father." Texas responded flatly, meeting America's gaze with blue eyes, so much like America's own, even daring to flip back the same, identical hair.

"Texas," America continued in a mock casual tone. "Where did you get that black eye?" The room was dead quiet before Texas answered.

"The batting-cages, Father." Texas said as emotionlessly as he had before, and America knew that guarded look- it was the same one he had used countless times on England when he was young.

"And, where did you get the cuts on your hands, Texas?" America questioned again, unrelenting.

"Cooking with Louisiana." Texas responded again.

"And the burn on your neck?" America pressed on.

"A failed attempt to cover up a hickey." Texas offered up as excuse.

"And the rope marks on your palms?"

"Working on the farm."

"And the clawing on your chest?"

"Oregon's cat doesn't like me."

"And the bruises on your back?"

"I fell from the barn."

America's game of questions continuing on to revel more and more intimate scarring, and Texas continued to repeat the places he allegedly received them until one jarred him, the _one thing _he received most recently, and could not be explained away as carelessness. It was with this question that the states knew what they had been called in for this day.

"Texas, how did you get that heart-shaped brand on your inner left thigh?" Texas didn't answer. America sighed again.

"Won't answer me now? Fine," he said, impatience beginning to show. "Minnesota-" America switched his target, and Minnesota gasped, not used to her father's attention let alone his scorn. America ignored her discomfort and kept his voice firm. "Minnesota, how did you get the teeth marks in your shoulder?"

"I-I-I, I just…" She stammered, slouching into her colorful scarf and her oversized hoodie, her one brown and one blue eye darting from America to Texas, back to America again several times before America asked her another question.

"Minnesota, how did you manage to bust your lip?" Minnesota squeaked.

"A-ah, a tussle with Wisconsin!" Her voice heightened with nervousness and grew even higher at the end almost questioningly, seeming to know that America didn't buy it.

"Alright, Minnesota." America leaned in and rested his mouth on steeple fingers for a second, regarding her tense frame before going on. "Why don't you tell me what 'The Game' is?" There was an tense, pregnant pause before it was interrupted by New Jersey.

"We all just lost it." He said quietly, almost a whisper, but it was enough to rouse a half minute of stifled laughter and many hidden grins.

"I'm not talking about your internet games." America said, not bothering to try to keep the emotion out of his voice this time. It was a clear, steely anger, and whatever joy was hidden in the situation was lost forever. "I want to know exactly why Texas and Minnesota look as though they've been beaten." Nobody dared breath.

America calmed himself, getting angry at them wouldn't do. As bad as the situation was, he had to at least hear them out before deciding to be angry with them. He exhaled out his nose, breaking the screaming silence.

"England was here last night, as you all know, and he and I went out for the night." America glanced around, each and every state was decidedly looking anywhere but at him or one another. "When we returned, re retired to bed." He went on. "However, shortly after- England has informed me- he was roused by a… a noise." His states were now fidgeting out of discomfort.

"Texas, Minnesota; care to explain what you were doing last night?" Texas and Minnesota locked eyes, his determined and embarrassed, hers wide and fearful. Minnesota gave Texas a small nod before hiding her mouth and nose with her hands, trying to be invisible like normal.

"Fine." Texas caved. "We'll tell you everything."

**AN: Naaaaaaaaaah~ Sorry if it's a little short, but I didn't want to launch right into it right off the bat. Here I'm just setting up the mood and whatnot I guess. Anyway, please leave a review and tell me what's on your mind. :D**


	2. Chapter 2 The Beginning

**AN: **Before we begin, I would like to thank my reviewers- I didn't expect anyone to respond so quickly! They were very encouraging. J

Kunoichi-Shea- I appreciate the feedback, and I'm glad I could quip your interest!

PsuedoDragon- Thank you for the heads-up! I will try my best to apply what you like to see to my story, and referring to Minnesota as Minnie is adorable! I'm going to have to steal that, it's too precious to pass up!

ficfan3484- Thank you! I hope this update came fast enough for you!

…

They had been playing the game together for some time now, Texas and Minnesota- the year it began was 1955 to be exact. It was both more innocent, and less, and in the beginning, and was not considered a game at all. It started between them during the cold war, when nothing was certain, and everyone was under fire. Their father rarely took time to look at his states (least he take his eyes off Russia and be attacked) and even more rarely took the time to explain the tension, and America's paranoia was contagious.

Wisconsin, funnily enough, was the first to catch it, breaking from the pressure of being left in the dark. He had become irritable, and lashed out at anyone who acted in a way he deemed suspicious. From Wisconsin's wild (and later would be remembered as comical) accusations, the disease spread- unfounded as they were, in their fear and upset, nobody wanted to be "Un-American Commies" as Wisconsin took to calling just about everyone.

Texas had taken it hard, his pride and fears fueling the fires of paranoia almost more vehemently then it did in the originator, and the quieter states suffered for it. If one of his brothers or sisters did not hail America as loudly as he did, or display their flag as frequently, they became the subject of long rants and were turned into villainous Communist sympathizers through often circular logic and unfounded allegation. Some days the state in question was there to yell back, and other days they were not- it just so happens, after what Texas considered to be an unenthusiastic Pledge of Allegiance, he turned on Minnesota.

Neither of them had much contact with each other, and neither had any quarrel in specifically with the other, but what little interaction they had had never been pleasant. Perhaps this is why Texas was so keen to start off his patriotic speeches as strongly as he did, and perhaps this is why he felt it so right to blame her for everything, but questioning her love for America was the exact wrong thing to do he found not seconds after the words left his lips. She attacked him with all the furry of the north.

In retrospect, it made sense why she snapped. She had been ostracized and humiliated by Wisconsin from the beginning, who she had been very close to previously. She, and her fellow Mid-Western states had bore the burden of hate and blame for the longest, and it showed in the strength she threw at him, in every hit, and every snarl. He threw them back at her, just as passionately, and just as frustrated. As quickly as they had pushed against each other in battle, they broke apart, eyes in a similar state of shock, and both breathing heavily. Bruises were beginning to form, and bloodied noses dripped off their chin.

"My god." Minnesota had whispered, bringing a hand up to her brother's face. He flinched away, expecting her to hit him again. She did not, and only brushed lightly against his stubborn chin. "My god." She whispered again and brought her hand back to her own face.

"I had forgotten." Texas said quietly after his breathing returned back to normal. "I had forgotten how hard you actually hit when you want to hurt someone." He recalled now, she was a horror during the Civil War.

"He can't know." Minnesota said leaning in, her voice low. For a second, Texas didn't have a clue as to whom she was referring, but then it dawned on him. America. America couldn't know. He would feel so betrayed, so let down by him. Not only had Texas hit a girl, not only had he struck his own sister, but he was attacking another state, and she was a part of America, just like he was, and that was unacceptable.

"No," he whispered back hoarsely. "No, it would…" He trailed off. She understood. There was another moment of gazing over the damage caused before Minnesota raised her had again, this time Texas didn't flinch.

"Did it hurt?" She asked concernedly, her fingers ghosting over his brow that was dripping blood down his eye.

"Yes." Said Texas truthfully. "Did this?" He asked, placing his own fingers with the gentlest touch to her split lower lip.

"Yes." She said just as truthfully, then hesitated for a second. "Do you regret it?" She asked her hand falling from his face to be placed over his hand. He considered her tender expression for a moment before responding.

"No." The one word was the simplest response, but held a heavy load behind it. He didn't regret hitting her, harming her, as much as he knew he should. It felt good in the moment to let go of everything and simply give into aggression. He was in physical pain, and yet, he felt better then he had in years.

"Good." Minnesota sighed and pressed a small kiss to his blood-stained knuckles. "Neither do I."

Texas ran his free hand through Minnesota's curly hair, blood drying and making it sticky near the bottom. He turned his hand to trace the back of his fingers across her perfectly pale, unscathed neck. He realized with a rush of giddiness that she had interlaced her fingers into the hand she was grasping. It was as if they were lovers, basking in the after-glow of their passion.

"Can- can we do it again some time?" He asked, his heart fluttering in a way was not at all used too. What he was asking was wrong, so wrong, but… She looked away shyly, and he swore he saw a blush under her spattering of bruises.

"I-I would like that." She stuttered out in her typical quiet manor. With that, their game was born, and it would only become more complex from there.

…

**AN: And that's how it all began. This chapter was pretty fluffy for being a horror story. :\ It'll get more into the horror side as it progresses, I swear, so please bare with me! And if you've see anything glaringly wrong with this chapter, you'll have my unending gratitude if you point it out. I've read and re-read it, but I'm notorious for over-looking the obvious. ;P**


	3. Chapter 3 Iowa

_**AN: I would like to thank my reviewers again for their support and interest.**_

…

Iowa sat petrified to his seat while his brothers and sisters goofed off around him. He glanced up at Minnesota beside him as she swayed ever so slightly, humming a familiar tune. He just knew something bad was going to happen today; America wasn't particularly known for planning these kinds of events out before he wanted them to happen, but he generally gave them at least a few hours wiggle room to get there. Today's call had been crisp, decided, and the time was definite, and then there was the way America was_ looking_ at them. This was not at all your average, out-of-the-blue-oh-I-just-wanted-to-see-all-of-you family gathering. He may have the body of a child, but Iowa was more perceptive then most of the adults in the room.

Iowa bit his lip. Minnesota should really learn to clean herself up better. There was a spot of blood on her chin still, and that split lip of hers… Texas really was fond of doing that, it was like graffiti he tagged on Minnesota and Minnesota alone. Iowa worried his lip between his teeth; her first-aid was getting lazy, he could tell, just look at that dirty bandage around her wrist! With care like that, she left evidence of abuse everywhere. This carelessness was not like her, she had always been so tidy about her preferences in the past… He glared over at Texas who was laughing loudly at nothing in particular.

In comparison to Texas, however, she looked entirely healthy. Iowa fumed, disgusted with the way he nonchalantly left scars and wounds hang out in the open, it was as if he was taunting them. "_Look what I have!"_ His sliced fingers and charred neck were saying. "_Aren't you curious where I got them?" _And if the obvious wounds weren't enough, he would smirk in a self-satisfied manor if he caught you looking at them. It was like Texas paraded them around like battle wounds- no, like _trophies._ Iowa scowled inwardly. With so many eyes on him all the time, one would think he would have more decency then that; if not for his own personal reputation, at least for the sake of the rest of them that were involved. It was his _duty_ to the others not to get caught! Iowa glanced up at Minnesota again. No one would be more disappointed that this game had to stop then him. That would mean the end of their intimacy.

Iowa didn't know what his relationship with Minnesota had been missing before he started playing the game, and it had never occurred him to lament that missing piece, but once the light had been turned on, he could no longer be content to sit in the dark. He was missing some private thing, he was missing _intimacy. _He had known of it, he had know Minnesota and Wisconsin (and others) to indulge in it, he even imagined what it might have been like, but it never crossed his mind that it was an expression of emotion that he could never use. Before the game, he had never cursed his eternal childhood, but now, now the game took place of the physical act he was denied; sex was replaced by pain.

It was like a mirage to him. He could see what he wanted, and why he wanted it, and was happy for a second or two, lost in the delusion that he could have it before he was crushed by the reality that it was physically impossible, his desire forever out of reach. As many times as they bathed together in the same tub, or slept together in the same bed, or as many times as he had buried his little round face in her surprisingly voluminous beasts, he could not manage to entice his nether region to work in the manor he wished it too. Not that it made much difference, he knew. He didn't have the strength necessary to perform such an action even if he could become aroused. This was just another reason on the list of why he was not at all fond of Texas.

Texas was big, strong, tall, and quite the opposite of Iowa. Where Texas had long, firm, muscular arms, Iowa had stubby, fatty ones. Where Texas had proud, broad shoulders, Iowa had petite, unformed ones. Where Texas had a defined, sculpted chest and stomach, Iowa's chest lay flat, and his stomach was round and putty-like. Where Texas' legs were shapely and built, Iowa's were, at best, gangly and awkward. Iowa did not like these differences one little bit. These differences meant that Texas could swoop in at any moment and sweep his Minnesota off her feet, patting him on the head as he went. And what would Minnesota do? The same thing she always did; kiss him on the forehead, smile, and make him promise he'd go to bed all my himself tonight like a good little boy. That was all well and fine, granted Minnesota asked. Iowa would drive himself crazy some nights thinking about what would be should Texas decide the game could take a sexual route and harm her that way. He literally pulled his hair out at time, thinking of how much he would _hate_ that.

_Hate, hate, hate, hate, hate it! How dare Texas! How dare he press into her without permission! How dare cause her __that__ kind of pain? How dare he ignore her pleas for him to stop? How dare he take that away from him! How dare he live out his only desire!_ He would think these thoughts for hours in a fit of rage, and the only thing that assured him was Minnesota's face pitiful, full of fear, full of pain, and full of _pleasure._ Iowa didn't mind if she showed his brothers that face if he was around, he didn't mind sharing that beautiful face if that meant he could see it at all, to cause it was sublime. That he could cause that face was his only joy lately- and even if he knew that Texas was making her grimace in pain, and moan in pleasure at the same time, he was not going to let anything change; he would be cut off if he did, and couldn't bare life without _that beautiful face._

Iowa fidgeted and went back to staring at his hands. He didn't want to think about things like that right now, it always caused a violent loop of happiness and sadness. He would shut it away from when he was feeling lonely without her company, as he was sure they would inevitably be split apart after this. Minnesota was oblivious next to him, still humming that tune. Iowa pondered it briefly before placing it, it was Chim Chim Cher-ee from Marry Poppins. He regarded this realization with complete apathy, not falling for his own sad attempt to distract himself. He dared to steal a glance over at America one more time, perhaps he was reading too much into this situation, maybe England had just rubbed off on him a bit during their night of drinking and made him more punctual with his nonsense.

The look on America's face had not softened, if anything, it had intensified and was directed solely at Texas. As if he had been waiting for Iowa's notice, America called out to him.

"Texas." He said simply, and Iowa was astounded at how quickly the background noise ceased, it left a slight ringing in his ears. It was like someone had abruptly shut off loud music.

"Yes Father." Texas replied, _still not doing a damn thing about hiding the evidence!_

"Texas," America repeated his name. "Where did you get that black eye?" The ringing stopped.

"_Damn it!" _Iowa cursed under his breath as Texas responded and America took to asking about another wound. Iowa knew it. _He knew it! _He _knew_ it was going to be a bad day!

…

**AN: Durrrrrr… It's not so horrifying again, dang it. Well, unless you consider little boys wishing they could activate their naughty bits so they can -ahem- assault their guardians to be horrifying… Which, now that I think about it, is pretty messed up… Not much actually happened in this chapter, but I feel like the key players should be introduced before we get into the **_**really**_** juicy stuff, and I got my ball rolling now, that's for sure.**

**Oh, and, happy winter holidays ladies and gentlemen. I hope you like the present of an update! :D**


	4. Chapter 4 California

**AN: I'm on a roll alright, I'm getting these done really quickly for some reason. This is a bit longer then the previous chapters, just for a heads up. :D**

::::::::::::

_Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._ The minutes were ticking away. _Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. _Just wasting away. _Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._ California had better things to be doing, but… _Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._ Somehow, the clock was hypnotic. _Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._ The second hand moved across the clock's face, whipping away the mess that the minute hand left in its wake which, in turn whipped the mess of the hour hand. _Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. _She could be doing a thousand other things, but the clock was just so… _Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._ Everything was a distraction for her these days, and everything somehow turned into a reminder of events past; this clock for instance… _Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._

She could sympathize with that little second hand, always in a robotic, hectic rush trying so hard to keep up it's break-neck pace in spite its sister's slower rhythm. Its blood-red color standing out against the stark white surface, and the black, back numbers, the only color in the circular race. That's why it rushed. That's why it tried to run so fast. That's why it would run from trivial thing to trivial thing, fixing the little problems. The smallest mistake would be noticed, being so brilliant, that it eternally swept the clock's face of all its little crumbs. California frowned to herself.

If that was what the second hand was doing, what on earth was the minute hand doing? And furthermore, what could the hour hand be mulling over that took so long to fix? If California was confused, the second hand must be positively perplexed.

"Don't worry, second hand." California said to the clock. "I don't understand my siblings either." The second hand ticked in response.

_Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._ _Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._ _Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._ _Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._ _Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._ _Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._ California laughed.

She was lying on her bed, her face hanging off the end to stare up-side-down at the clock above her desk, her arms spread wide to either side of her, her feet pointed like an arrow. She had a large room located on the second story of her house, with a walk-in closet, queen sized bed, and a pleasant little porch to the east so she could watch sun rise. Her walls were plastered with faded posters of bands she took to liking, her desk was littered with letters of adoration, and her closet was stuffed to burst with only the most fashionable clothing. She tilted her head a bit registering her name being said.

_California girls We're unforgettable Daisy Dukes Bikinis on top Sun-kissed skin So hot We'll melt your Popsicle Oooooh oh oooooh!_

She had forgotten she turned on the radio a while back, she had become consumed with feelings of an inanimate object. The words in the song were true enough, she supposed, she _was_ beautiful. Even now, as her face was red, and the veins in her forehead pulsed lividly at the tip of her skin from her hanging up-side-down fro so long, she was more lovely then most girls could ever hope to be even with the best plastic surgery money could buy. The songs praising her beauty were numerous. She didn't mind that, per se, but she did have a problem with _this_ one. Texas sung it to her not to long ago, and everything referenced during the game was always tainted by it forever more…

_California girls We're undeniable Fine, fresh, fierce We got it on lock Westcoast represent Now put your hands up Oooooh oh oooooh _

"Oh, shut up." California snapped at the radio, flailing her long, thin legs up over her dead, doing a backwards somersaults to get off her large bed. She tottered to her desk and slapped the off-button on her radio before the last _'oh' _could taper off and the next verse could start.

_Fine, fresh, fierce- you wouldn't be saying that if you knew how pathetic I was last night._ California thought bitterly to herself. Last night she had played the game, and the only way to describe her performance was to say that she lost. She put her hands on her hips, then grimaced in pain. Texas and Minnesota where both very good at this game, but they were even better when they teamed up. The memories of how she had received these painful welts floated to the top of her head.

…

They had entered through her garage door, not bothering to be quiet about it. She was in the shower when they came in, enjoying the warm water after a long, boring day of actually doing some work. California was used to people traipsing through her house (mostly her siblings) looking for either a party or a place to crash for the night, both of which she was generally willing to provide at any hour, and happy to do it. Today, however, she was not in the mood, and would sort the intruders out.

"Guuuuuuuuuuuuuys!" She whined and turned off the shower, stepping out and reaching for a towel. "I am _not_ in the mood to be entertaining today, so go bother someone else!" She wrapped the pink towel she managed to snag around her self and wandered out of her bathroom into the hall leading to a wide set of stairs, not caring in the slightest that she wasn't what most would call decent. She stomped down the steps and made a sharp right to glare into her kitchen where the intruders had entered the house from. Nobody was there.

She made a little "hmmf!" noise to herself, irritated that her unexpected guests had already gone off somewhere and made themselves comfortable without her there to show them in. She rounded the kitchen and wandered through the dinning room not bothering to look around, she was half a stride into her living room before strong arms seized her from behind. She yelped in surprise and Minnesota seemed to materialize from the shadows before her.

"Hello California." She said dreamily. "Did you forget what day it is?"

_Shit. _She had. A deep rumbling laugh shook through her from behind, and California could recognize it anywhere; it was Texas.

"Dam it!" She swore and tried to wriggle out of his grasp, hoping that she was slick enough to be able to slide away, her towel coming undone in her useless struggles.

"Oh, good." Minnesota quipped up at the sight. "If you're naked, we won't have to ruin any of your cloths…" She paused staring at a point some place over California's left shoulder. "I always feel bed about that, you're so stylish…" Minnesota brought a black bag up to her chest that had gone unnoticed, bringing out today's torture devices.

California's eyed the instruments a tad curiously before gasping. "You have _got _to be _kidding me!_" Minnesota had a handful of needles and a bullwhip. California _hated_ needles.

Another reverberating laugh traveled through her. "C'mon, California, s'not so bad." Texas' cheery accent was comically ill-fitting in light of the situation, and his breath was hot against her moist skin.

"That's easy for you to say, you S and M freak." She spat, trying to twist against him to break his unyielding grip. Minnesota was the one to laugh this time, it's surprisingly musical quality weakening her resolve like a lullaby. Minnesota took hold of her hips and Texas let go. California was still fighting, but even as she fought against Minnesota's gentler grip, kicking and bucking, Texas was strapping her hands to something cold and metal. The click of hand cuffs and the scrapping of chains made her realize why Minnesota found her previous accusation amusing.

"DAMN IT!" California shouted, struggling with renewed strength, kicking more wildly then ever until Minnesota took a firm hold of both her ankles and shackled them to a heavy metal bar in one fell swoop. Texas let her go and she crumpled under the weight of her chains. She lay there, panting slightly and listening to the queer noise of a drill until she was picked back up again. He had fastened several hooks to her ceiling, and she could only imagine she would soon be dangling from them.

Sure enough, Texas looped the chains around her hands to the ceiling. He stepped back, admiring his handy work as Minnesota worked about her feet, the noise of drills filling the air again. Minnesota soon straightened herself, and California found that her feet had been firmly rooted to the floor. She was totally at their mercy.

"Well." Texas said. "That went way too smoothly. We were expectin' a lot more fight outta you, right Minnie?" California glared at him. Texas could be a real asshole sometimes.

"Well," replied Minnesota, in her ever apologetic tone. "She did forget we were coming. We her caught off guard…" For some reason, California felt a gush of gratitude towards Minnesota- at least she would never gloat. Texas let out a short bark of laughter that managed to be unlike the others that shook the room.

"Aw, Minnie, you're too cute." He said and ruffled her hair, taking the bullwhip she had managed to stuff in her pocket when she was busy with California's confines. "Now," he said, turning to California. "Lets get started."

Minnesota gave her the once over and grinned. She pulled out one needle, and California began to really panic. These weren't medical needles, those she could deal with, no, these were throwing needles. Long, lethal throwing needles.

Minnesota pressed the needle to California's skin just below one exposed breast, in between the ribs. She stopped and looked up into California's eyes. "I need you to stay as still as a statue, can you do that for me, California?" Minnesota's voice was soft and caring as if she were instructing a child. California whimpers, the point is just sitting there, it was just one uncomfortable prick, but she knew Minnesota wouldn't spare her the full five inches.

"If you can't stay still, I'll have to discipline you." Texas said sternly, running the whip through his hands. California shuddered at the glee in his eye. They all knew she wouldn't be able to stay still for long. Minnesota smiled sweetly at her.

"Here we go." she whispered and began to press the needle into California slowly, ever so slowly.

California gasped and screamed, pulling away from the cold, painful intrusion by instinct. Texas raised his whip and cracked it down on the little notch between her hip bone and her stomach. California screamed again. Minnesota giggled and pulled the needle out.

"Now we have to start again!" She said happily and applied the needle to the same spot and pushed again. She twisted slightly to work it in at her slow pace. California screamed again and twitched away, Texas came down with another crack of his whip in the same place with masterful precision that California might have admired were her thoughts not fogged up by the excruciating pain.

"Again! Again!" Minnesota cried and pulled the needle out to work at the wound from the top once more. This time, California resisted pulling away, shivering in pain. The needle was disappearing into her ribcage little by little, golden skin swallowing silver steel. She was gasping and shuddering in pain, her head lolling from side to side, her hands in tight, shivering balls trying to resist the urge to move away when plain flesh met the lip of the hole. It was like fire and California screamed.

"One down." Texas said, greedy for more. Minnesota drew another one and dragged it lightly down California's skin, coming to the next space between her ribs and pressing slowly against her skin again.

"Hmmm." St hummed to herself. "Now that I think about it, isn't there a rather popular song of late about California?" She asked casually, giving the needle a fine twist. California twitched back and screamed for two reasons. The first being Texas' whip connecting with the same spot, and the second being that bending backwards only drove the first needle in deeper.

"Hmm." Texas scratched his chin. "Now that you mention it, I think there is…"

"Ah." Minnesota sighed. Realigning the needle the best she could, the blood form the first needle disguising that from the second. "How does it go? It's on the tip of my tongue, but I can't quite remember…"

"Lets see here.." Texas pondered and California's scream was deafening as Minnesota gave a particularly cruel little twist. Texas brought his whip down three time on the other indent on the other hip. "Now I can't concentrate if you're hollerin' like that." He said upset. "Now you best be quiet while I think about this." California moaned into her mouth as Minnesota continued her slow work, every once in a while giving a poke at the previous wound. Every breath was painful now, as there were two needles in her lungs. She was taking short gasps of breath and her heart was beating unnaturally fast. Minnesota started in on her third needle and Texas cracked the whip again out of frustration.

"Damn it!" He exclaimed. "I know this one too!" California didn't know how much longer she could hold out. Minnesota pressed up on the needle and California's head was spinning with pain. Suddenly, Texas laughed, genuinely delighted.

"Ah! I got it!" He cries out before he starts singing terrible off key. "California girls, we're unforgettable! Daisy Dukes, Bikinis on top, Sun-kissed skin, So hot, we'll melt your Popsicle! Oooooh oh oooooh!" The lyrics roll off awkwardly, but he's laughing again. Minnesota is saying something, but California can't quite make it out. Her vision has become a blur, and was fading black faster every time she blinked. The last thing she thinks about before she passes out in Minnesota's lyrical giggle.

::::::::::::

**AN: **_**Finally!**_** You get your first real taste of it all with this chapter, and I managed to do it all while introducing another key character! I originally was going to do this a bit different, but I thought I should actually live up to the horror part sooner rather then later. All this was going to happen anyway, might as well say it now. :D**

**But I do hope I haven't confused anyone with this; the chapters aren't necessarily linear to the events as they occurred. Think of it like this if I have managed to confuse you: anything about the meeting with America is the present, and anything not about it is sometime leading up to it.**

**PS, the song is Katty Perry's "California Girls" **

**I'm not at all fond of the song, actually, I think it's rather annoying.**


	5. Chapter 5 What Has Been Seen

**AN: Nuuuuuurrrrrr I'm going to be writing them much more slowly now, to make sure I edit them properly. I was making them two at a time before and that made me get lazy about revision. Nur. I might fix chapter 4 up a bit later, but for now, I just want to write out this chapter. Anyway, you'll get higher quality writing out of me from now on. Yaaay!**

::::::::::::

Canada couldn't believe it, _wouldn't _believe it. It would never happen, not in a million years, but there it was, plain as day, right in front of his face. He had to be mistaken. The scene was too bizarre to be real. It had to be some sort of fluke, or at least there had to be a reasonable explanation for it. Canada ran his fingers through his hair and breathed heavily through his nose, releasing it slowly through his mouth. How his hockey stick had been broken and splattered with some brown substance (that he may or may not be suspecting is actually blood) was a thoroughly confounding matter. There were events he witnessed prior to actually finding it in this state that connected, but his brain was rejecting to see as relevant.

The previous night he had seen, with his own eyes, a figure that looked suspiciously like his brother (though, he wasn't saying it was) stomp up to his sports shed, kick in the door, walk into it, and stomp off with a hockey stick. Some time later, and after a few uncommonly pained wolf howls that sounded suspicious like a man screaming (though he wasn't suggest that they were) Canada had seen the same figure bring the mangled piece of equipment back, then coated with a red substance. There they were, events all in their little order, being painfully incriminating, wanting to be strung together to complete the story, but try as he might, Canada couldn't believe what his eyes had told him. It was absurd, after all, that America would beat anyone with his hockey stick. America rarely did anything without announcing it to at least three different people before hand to make sure people were well aware to be in awe of his actions, and he would absolutely ask before using his things, if only to run Canada through every minute detail excitedly. Surely America wasn't _hiding_ anything form Canada, surely… But since it was a somewhat mysterious matter, and things could be dangerous, and they were brothers after all, perhaps it might be for the best to investigate a bit… Just to be sure, just to be safe. Nothing funny about keeping tabs on your family with a maniac breaking into sheds at night, right? Just to make sure they're still safe, of course, just to make sure…

Canada wandered over to the offending stick and took a hold of it. The damage really was spectacular for being just a hunk of wood, it was a wonder how it was still mostly in one piece. There were dents in the shape of hands that his quickly slid into, fitting perfectly as if he had made them himself. The grip must have been exceedingly tight to make such a clear impression, and Canada noted that up in the air, tilted slightly forward was decidedly _not_ the proper way to hold a hockey stick. The protective varnish had been broken beneath the prints, leaving splintering wood against his palm, and started the spider web cracks that reached across the entire surface giving it the appearance of a dried and skeletal leaf. The brown substance was mostly on the head if it, splattered up the shaft as if it had been slapped into a puddle or, from a more macabre point of view, against an unsuspecting body. The peculiar indent just off the back of it suggested it had run into something round and dense, perhaps (if still following the more grim out look) a skull.

He took a hand away from the prints left behind and gingerly put a finger into the mystery goo. It was sticky and cold, unpleasant to the touch as he pulled away. He brought the finger up to his face, sniffed it and, oh, that was definitely blood. Of course, that didn't mean it was _human_ blood or anything. Maybe there was a bludgeoned animal somewhere out there, he _had _heard that pathetic howling… Canada looked around, as if checking if the coast was clear before setting the hockey stick aside and strolling out of his shed, tugging the ruined door shut behind him the best he could before setting off in the direction he had heard the crying. If there was an animal that needed to be beaten off, he really should look into the cause, right?

There was a mysterious disturbance in the plain nature not too far from his house that, coincidentally, seemed to be dashed with browned blood, but there was no hapless body of a deceased animal for him to be identifying. Maybe it had been drug off by a scavenger already, there was a trail of blood leading away after all. Maybe he shouldn't follow it, he wouldn't like to be caught up by a large predator. But, then again, he was already here, and a peek really wouldn't hurt; just to satisfy his curiosity. Not that he suspected that the trail would lead to someone's house or anything.

The trail was meandering and inconsistent, a nice fat line of it here, a dot of it there, but it wasn't terribly difficult to follow for the Canadian. He found himself being led into lands that were not his own, and realized (much to his mind's chagrin, and his eyes' grim satisfaction) that it belonged to his brother. Not that he was expecting this twist, no, not at all, but he couldn't truthfully say he was surprised. He had been refusing to look farther beyond the tracks he was following then absolutely need be for fear of seeing what was inevitable; that he was intruding further and further into human inhabited lands, but when the sound of a car alarm echoed through the afternoon, he couldn't ignore it. He had wandered into an unsuspecting cul-de-sac somewhere in North Dakota and, by the looks of it, stood in somebody's wide backyard.

It was well manicured, and neglected all at the same time. It had the same kind of ghostly feel to it that unused rooms had, mostly indifferent with a hint of regret as you turn your back. The only ornament was a rusty swing set tucked away near what Canada assumed was the end of the property, at the line where the grass abruptly stopped being shaved neat, and lush and became wild, long, and hearty. There was a small porch not too far from where he stood, seeing to be too modest for the expanse of land it sat on. There was nothing spectacular about this porch save that this is exactly where the drips of blood were leading. More astounding to Canada, he found as he cautiously followed his trail, was that they led _inside_ the box-like house it was attached to. Canada raised an unsteady hand to the sliding glass door that exposed the house's den, seriously considering going in, then froze. A sound stilling him and making his heart race. A window somewhere to his left slid open and the noise of a TV was suddenly distinct along with voices from within.

"… Then stop complaining about it being stuffy."

Canada had to stifle an embarrassed mew. That window was _very_ close to where he stood. Close enough that he could hear another person softly coughing, and the speaker's footsteps as he walked away from the window. Canada thanked his lucky stars that this instant was one where he seemed to be invisible. He took a few gulps of air and managed to get his heart out of his throat, back into his chest. He flattened his stomach against the side of the house and sidled towards the window, curiosity compelling him more powerfully then the knowledge that he was doing something he shouldn't be was pulling him back. He wondered monetarily if being on his brother's land was a catalyst for doing stupid things, then quelled the internal battle of whether it was America tainting his land, or the other way around before it could really take off. Either way, it always seemed to get _him_ in trouble. He managed to reach the sill of the window and peeked his head up and his eyes were fighting with his brain again. It was a bedroom, and in it was a bed, and in that bed, bandaged and bloody, was North Dakota. Canada flung himself away from the window at once, his brain finally giving into what his eyes had been telling him all along.

Someone who looked exactly like America broke down the door to his shed, took a hockey stick, beat his nephew, then put it back. There was a silent, yet frantic moment of panic, his eyes went unfocused, his muscles screamed for him to run away, and his mind turning into a bright glaring red before he could actually function again. He trembled in his attempts to keep quiet, to simply walk out as unnoticed as he had walked in. He didn't realize he was determinedly marching back home until he reached the fateful little patch of flattened grass he now knew was the place North Dakota was assaulted. Why either party were on his land he didn't know, didn't _care_. He didn't want to ponder it, all he wanted was to stop his imagination from running wild like it was, stabbing at his nerves with flashes of America leering over his unconscious, bloody son. He stumbled on, he didn't want to think about it, he didn't want to think about anything.

Canada found himself bumping against his own bed. Dazed, he looked around himself. How had he gotten to his bedroom? Wasn't he just in Dakota's land? Oh, god, please stop that horrible sight from running through his head again! What was he going to do? Would he confront America? Would he tell someone else? He looked down at his bed and was exhausted with shock and emotion. He climbed in, not even bothering to remove his shoes. He would deal with it next morning. Right now, he couldn't finish a thought, let alone be of help to anyone. Right now, all he could do is sleep, and the minute he shut his eyes, sleep he did. A long, blissfully black sleep.

::::::::::::

**AN: BOOM, CANADA! I bet you didn't see that one coming. (Wait, who didn't we see coming?) I love Canada, he's adorable. This chapter really was a treat for me to write. Also, as an interesting note, this is inspired by my older sister who, when stressed for any reason, falls asleep. Ha ha, she's not narcoleptic or anything, it's just her body's first response to remove her from the situation. The second response in throwing up, so most days it's just best to let her sleep.**

**P.S.**

**I hope this pleases the evil task master.**


	6. Chapter 6 Sweeten Us

**AN: First and foremost, happy new year everybody! Lets all do our best to stick to our resolutions for more then a week!**

**And a warning to all of you who are anxiously awaiting to see what Canada does after he unknowingly witnesses a move in the game: this chapter has very little to do with Canada. We won't see the results of that for a few more chapters, evil Beyond-The-Winter is being evil and leaving you guys with a cliff-hanger as long as she can get away with it. Muwa ha ha ha ha ha ha! :D Oh, and reviewer shout-outs:**

**PsuedoDragon- That comment was actually in response to something ficfan3484 said during a conversation, but if you want to be an evil task master too, then you can be. (What ever will I do with two evil task-masters? It'll be twice the evil mastering my tasks! *jumps at your whip, and writes better*)**

**Jamal marshall: Florida will be involved soon enough, he's too important not to be. Just have patients, it'll take a fair few chapters, but he'll be there, don't you worry. And you're very perceptive; that's all I have to say about the matter of **_**who**_** it was that Canada saw there. You'll find out why shortly. ;P**

::::::::::::

There was only one thing that made South Dakota cry, and that one thing was North Dakota crying, and there were very few things that made North Dakota cry. This is why North Carolina was alarmed when South Dakota called her up obviously crying. North Carolina was used to other states calling her in a fit of tears; the original thirteen often acted as parental figures for the newer states when America was unavailable (which was sadly more often then not) but she treated this call with a certain amount of gravity, given the rarity of the caller in question. She had picked up the phone nearly half an hour ago, expecting her twin or Virginia wanting to tease her about being chosen as the next victim but got a highly distraught brother instead. For the first ten minutes she could scarcely sort out who it was on the other line, in such a panic was he. The next ten minutes she spent trying to calm him down so at least he was sobbing at a reasonable pitch. The next ten after that she managed to talk him into starting from a proper point and telling her what, exactly, had him so upset.

"Alright, feeling better?" She said into the phone's receiver, fully expecting that the sobs would remain throughout the entire conversation. She had learned to live with them through many sad calls; she wasn't as good at making out words in between the wailing as New York had gotten, but she was decent at it.

"It's _horrible._" He croaked, sounding stuffy and defeated. North Carolina waited through his renewed tears for him to continue. "It was supposed to be _me _Texas and Kansas were playing with. _Me!_"

North Carolina glanced thoughtlessly over at the clock, she should probably hurry this along, not to disregard his feelings, no, it really was a big deal that quiet, proud Dakota twin had called her at all, but it was nearly time for her to be playing the game herself. She wondered who her attackers would be… "Did they not?" She asked, admittedly a little confused by his statement.

"No." He said and shuddered a few times. "Well, for the first part, yes." He trailed off, hiccuping as he tried to suppress his tears.

"Then what happened?" She prompted, genuinely interested in what could have gone wrong.

"They… I…" South Dakota stammered, then dropped his voice to a whisper. "Kansas likes it when we scream." North Carolina knew that all too well. "And she said I wasn't screaming loud enough for her." South Dakota continued.

"What did she do?" North Carolina asked, nearly afraid of the answer, mimicking his hushed tone. There were a few really bad people to get stuck with, and Kansas was one of them. Oh, Texas was bad too, but mostly only when he had anything to do with one of the Midwestern states.

"We all went and got North," he breathed into the phone, North Carolina leaned forward as if trying to get a better position for listening to the person who was, at closest, four states away. "We got North and, and, and…" The sobs started up again loudly. North Carolina pulled back in surprise and irritation. She wanted to get to the bottom of this, it was getting good.

"Ssssh. Sssssh." She cooed comfortingly. "Tell me what she did."

"She-she -she-" The Dakota stuttered around gasps. "She held me down, and told Texas to beat him, but-but-but-" He cried a bit more here, driving North Carolina crazy. She glanced back over to the clock, they'd be here any minute, but she wanted to hear the rest of the story.

"But what?" North Carolina prompted curiosity getting the better of her.

"B-but Texas said, Texas said he didn't want to-to d-do it by hand." His crying was getting in the way of his story again. "B-but there was nothing around to beat him with."

"Then what." North Carolina prompted again, all comforting pretenses gone.

"Then he th-threw North at Kansas, and then she was holding us both." South Dakota gasped in air. "And then he stomped off towards Canada's house." Another huge gasp. "And the whole time Kansas was telling us what she wanted to do with us, and I was s-s-so scared of what Texas was getting!" His pitch was rising again, but North Carolina decided it wasn't worth calming him down again.

"What did Texas get?" She registered that her voice was a little to excited and struggled to keep her composure.

"Then he ca-came b-back w-with a hockey stick," North Carolina was almost disappointed by the common place of the object Texas decided to collect. "And then he-he-he started h-h-hitting North." The panic in his voice made it heighten to an unreasonable octave.

"Oh, South Dakota…" North Carolina sighed. He was all worked up over nothing after all. She meant to cut him off there, as the conversation really was cutting it close to game time, but he went on frantically.

"Texas just kept hitting him and hitting him and hitting him and we were both screaming and Kansas was laughing and laughing! Oh, North Carolina, I didn't know what to do! That was supposed to be me! Just _me!_" North Dakota's sobs were so loud, they almost sounded like laughter.

"Dakota…" North Carolina started, still trying to cut him off, this time a little bit of anxiety frosting over her words, but he again persisted.

"And then it was over and North wasn't moving anymore, and Texas just slipped off and his blood was everywhere!" North Carolina was at a loss as to how to shrug him off at this point. She eyed the clock suspiciously. Really, her attackers were probably already at her front door.

"And North Carolina?" His tone changed abruptly from frantic to calm.

"Huh?" She said unintelligibly. Taken-aback by his sudden switch, a nervous little twitch making her eyes flutter of their own accord.

"I found something out when I was cleaning up the wounds…" There was something suspicious about this all of a sudden. Her heart was pounding, she hadn't noticed it speed up, but now it was throwing itself against her rib cage.

"W-what's that?" She was scared now. Her attacker had to be close, it was past time. _Past time._

"Fear sweetens the blood." She heard it in double, in both ears, identical voices, yet not the same at all. It took less then a second for her to realize that the second voice had not come from her phone at all. In the moment it took for strong arms to wrap around her shoulders and face, she thought that maybe South Dakota had been calling on a cell phone inside her house all along. In the before seconds she was pulled away from the phone, the mismatched laughter told her otherwise. A second later, however, she found she had been half right as South Dakota broke through her window, his face as delighted as his brother's.

As North Dakota's mouth found her neck, biting down hard, she mused at how sweet the blood pooling in his mouth must be.

::::::::::::

**AN: I watched the movie Fargo recently (if you don't know what that is, you should go look it up and watch it- and my casting of Minnesota will make a lot of sense) so I was just dying to add in something about a wood-chipper somewhere, but it wouldn't fit in this chapter at all. I barely even wiggle the mention of the Midwest, let alone Minnesota into it. ;A;**

**On a brighter note, it's almost my birthday! Come January 20****th**** I'll be 20 years old. It's to be my golden birthday, so I tried my best to be golden for you. I plan on getting a tattoo to commemorate the occasion, wish me luck! ~**

**Oh, and, PsuedoDragon, I'll be taking those socks you bet. ;D**


	7. Chapter 7 Broken

**AN: So, this was a long time in the coming, I know, but I have a very good excuse! I have been mega-hella sick. I started throwing up one day and never stopped. What that all means for you is, this chapter is completely re-imagined, and completely rewritten to include some of the hell I just went through. **

**I believe this warrants the rating to go up to M, to be safe. Just so you aware. Enjoy. :)**

::::::::::::

There is nothing poetic about eating, nor is there anything poetic about war. This doesn't stop people, however, from trying to make them so. In war, they apply words like valor, justice, and sacrifice, straining vigorously to pretty it up with policies, awards, codes, and honors. All war is is two nations hitting each other until one backs down to find out who is more in the right. Eating is in the same predicament. There are all sorts of rules and etiquette to follow, and a person is often ridiculed and looked down upon if the formalities are not followed. More ridiculous still is the many ways in which you prepare your foods, how doing it this way was considered a fine delicacy, while doing it that way is considered crude and barbaric. Ingesting a life form in order to continue your own is by no means a topic of poetry, and those who delight in trying are fools. That being said, there was definitely something poetic about what Kansas was forcing South Dakota to do to North Dakota that pertained to both. Poetic irony was oft blunt as it was flowery.

South Dakota had indeed been selected to be Kansas' and Texas' victim that day; that day having come and gone about six days ago, and who the victim was supposed to be had been disregarded. It was always that way with Kansas, she tended to get bored quickly and make her own temporary amendments to the rules that most of them strictly followed. She wasn't afraid of the repercussions that might follow in the slightest, in fact, she seemed to encourage the disasters that were sure to befall her the next day. She wasn't the only one who played the game to break some rules, to be sure, and she was far from the only wild card, but there was a certain dissatisfaction about her that only boded ill during their play. Perhaps she was flitting from one realm of hurt to the next because she had not found her particular brand of dark muse to play for, perhaps she jumped from torture to torture to avoid guilt, and perhaps she was simply mad. Motives, however, are hardly important as the action in the eyes of those in pain, and South Dakota had entered an area of pain he hadn't know existed not but a week ago.

It had started out like any other day where the game was to be played, awake at dawn, tension building every hour as you attempt to go about your business until fellow states came in, faces dark and menacing, relieving the nerves and replacing them with something more worthy. South Dakota was a hearty state, he could endure a lot without much complaint in the physical realm, but the waiting was an aspect he wasn't very fond of- he was not one for surprise attacks either. He had his pride to think of, after all. His pride, he knew, was his greatest weakness, but he never seemed to be able to put it aside. It was certainly getting him in all kinds of trouble now.

South Dakota clung to the side of the bed, his throat was raw and he tasted blood, there was nothing in his stomach anymore, not even bile, but that didn't stop the heaving. His head was pounding, and he was trembling to hard to move much further then to the edge of the bed, where piles of his watery vomit were spreading across the floor. He reached for another glass of water and sipped it. He knew full well that he wouldn't be able to keep it down, as that much was promised by Kansas, he would be vomiting, but it was so much easier on his stomach and throat when there was something to reject, but this service rendered came at a heavy cost, Kansas made sure of that too. The sound of meat sizzling on a skillet was enough to make him feel queasy all over again, he knew what was coming.

"Another bite, then Dakota." Kansas said. She was known for being friendly, for being welcoming, for being homey and pleasant, but these things where not in this flat, dissatisfied voice, and these things were not on her passive, blank face as she brought a fork with a small bite of meat to his lips. South Dakota recoiled, he did not want to, he did not want to eat it. It would be fine if it were anything else, any other kind of meat, any other kind of thing to ingest… Kansas took his chin lightly in callused hands. South Dakota didn't have the strength to pull away from her and simply gave in to opening his mouth. She inserted the small bite and closed his jaw, when he made no attempt to eat, she commanded softly.

"Chew." She said simply and began to gently coax his jaw into moving. South Dakota obeyed weakly, he really didn't want to be doing this, but what Kansas wanted from him was… His pride, even now, would not allow him to do it. He moved the lump of meat to the back of his throat, and swallowed with much effort. He shivered and tried not to think where the meat came from, tried to block out the flavors that were lingering on his tongue. The desire to vomit came quickly. He threw his head over the side of the bed again and tried not to look, not to see the little ball of meat he had just eaten in the puddle of water around it. He began heaving again, every little drop in his stomach being forced out and mingling with the blood from his throat. South Dakota let out a whimper and collapsed against the bed.

"Texas." Kansas called, almost whispered his name, but he Texas must have heard the small call for he emerged from an adjacent room, wearing and apron speared with brown, and fresh blood. South Dakota turned at the intrusion, he had almost forgot that Texas was to be involved at all, he had almost put it out of his head… But then, he caught a glimpse of what was there in that other room. His brother, his twin, his other half was facing away, chained to a chair. Even from this distance, he could see the slight tremble of his shoulders, but he would never cry. No, not his prideful North, never. There was blood on the floor, and there was more leaking from him, dripping down his legs. Before Texas could swing the door shut, North Dakota craned his neck around, shifting his body enough that South Dakota could see the gaping wound in his chest. They locked eyes, North and South, and South Dakota could no longer pretend to himself that he did not know what he was being served.

"Do you need more?" Texas asked, gesturing to Kansas' depleted supply of raw meat, and South Dakota was broken. Pride be damned, he couldn't do this, he had been eating his brother, he had to stop this, it had been going on for days, he couldn't keep this up, his brother couldn't keep this up, it had to stop!

"I'm sorry!" He wailed, and he would have cried if there was any fluid left in his body. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" South Dakota was more shouting to his brother in the other room, but this is the sort of thing Kansas wanted to be hearing. She wanted him to plead, to beg, to scream. If it would save them, he would do all of it. "I'll do anything! Please stop this! Please!" Kansas broke into a smile worthy of an award.

"Never mind, Texas, I think we're almost done here…" Kansas was beaming now, just as pleased as punch to hear the panicked light to his voice, but before anything else could be done, there was a screech of metal bending and snapping and a crash of glass shattering. Texas turned quickly and ripped the door off it's hinges, revealing the plain room to be trashed with bits of chains and chair scattered about and a window obliterated, but vacant of North Dakota.

"GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!" Texas roared and launched himself out hole in the wall after him. South Dakota smiled to himself and laid back on the bed; he could always count on North to give 'em hell for him.

He was about to congratulate himself on a game well played, but Kansas was suddenly at his side, scooping him up and throwing him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He struggled sluggishly against her, still to weak from the constant binge to do any damage even remotely. Then they were off, out after Texas and North Dakota at a break-neck speed, and all South Dakota could do was squirm uncomfortably as he began to feel the whip of branches against him. Where had North run off to? Suddenly he was thrust against the ground, and he was pulled out of his daze and wonder. It was a chilly, moonless night, and the air was crisp and sharp and had a scent that was both foreign and tantalizingly familiar. Were they in Canada? There was a low, displeased growl somewhere beyond his line of vision, but he didn't bother to look, he could tell by the soft thudding of body hitting body that accompanied it that Texas had found North.

The world shifted around him as he was dragged into an upright position, and faced the scene. Texas had North Dakota by the neck, held at arm's length and dangling a few inches off the ground. He wasn't strangling him, per se, just holding him there in anger as North Dakota kicked pathetically against his captor. Texas was livid, he could tell; livid, yet excited. Kansas would surely let him have his way, he earned it after all. He chased down his prey, caught it, and was simply biding in good manners in waiting for the kill. He was always such a gentleman, always let the ladies take their pleasure before he had his. Texas glowered over at them expectantly.

"I don't want to use my bare hands." He snarled after a second of silence.

"I'll hold him while you get a weapon." Kansas said immediately. The note of satisfaction in her voice not missed by anyone. South Dakota was left to crumple against the earth once more as Kansas left him to take hold of his twin.

There was a full minute of cursing and punches exchanged before Kansas managed to subdue him enough to maintain a restrictive hold. She was whispering things into his ear, some of which he caught- a word here, a snippet of a lullaby there- but most of which was simply a symphony of coos and giggles he was sure were frightening and diminutive. He began to raise himself up on his elbows, but was kicked down again almost immediately. That, in a moment of sudden clarity, is when he realized that he was broken, truly and honestly. He was going to be playing the game in earnest now, he realized that his heart and clicked into the right place, Kansas and driven him to the right kind of crazy. How could he have missed it before? There was something pleasing about this state of affairs, something bold and raw (or rather chewy and over-cooked to be literal about it) that he had been resisting, because it was wrong, so very wrong, and yet, and yet there was something undeniably _right _about it all. He would have to repay the favor, give back what his brother had unwillingly given up to him, and he would have to properly thank Kansas too, for that matter, and he was beginning to form all sorts of plans for her, they were such _delicious_ plans, but that would wait, that would wait… His state of elation was sudden and unbreakable, he resisted the urge to laugh if only to keep the game afoot, he wouldn't want to spoil any of Texas' fun just for his own epiphany.

South Dakota blinked a few times to clear his head. When had Texas reappeared? What was he holding? A stick? No, not just any stick, a _hockey stick_. Everything was funny to South Dakota just then, and he almost gagged trying to stop himself from laughing out loud. He couldn't somber himself, even as Texas ripped North out of Kansas' grasp and bashed him in the skull with the sports equipment. In fact, it only seemed to heighten his desire to giggle. He wanted to reach out to Texas and say 'I know _exactly_ what you're feeling, brother.' because, judging by that sloppy smile that was plastered across Texas' face with each thud of wood on skull, they _were_ feeling the exact same giddy feeling. Then North Dakota wasn't moving anymore, and Kansas had disappeared and Texas was slipping off between the trees and he was all alone.

He was alone in the woods in Canada, and everything was _so god damned funny! _He laid back again and looked up at the stars and laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed until he coughed up blood. He was really beginning to enjoy the game…

::::::::::::

**AN: Reviewer shout-out time!**

**PsuedoDragon: You are now Evil Task Master 2. Your Fail!Whip will forever be a symbol of your illustrious ETM status. Make me proud, PsuedoDragon, make me proud. (And frightened of your evil task management, too.) About the wood-chipper thing… I wouldn't have anyone actually using it on anyone else, per se, but it makes me giggle; it would just be a throw to one of my favorite scenes in Fargo is all. All the States have their own little way to bring on the pain, and a wood chipper is a little too abrupt to use as an actual weapon for Minnesota at least, it just isn't her style. Maybe one of the more southern states might get a kick out of it, but most of the States aren't quite stupid enough to cause that kind of obvious red-flag type damage; most of them. ;P And, as always, I take your suggestions to heart. Preying on phobias is definitely going to **_**somebody's**_** game plan, and that's an interesting drop of information about sound there. Very interesting... And don't you worry about what I'm going to do with those socks of yours; I have plans for them, oh, yes I do. :D**

**Enilec: I will try my best to avoid making this a torture-chamber story; I'm planning on there being more psychological elements to the story too. I do hope it I write it to your taste.**


	8. Chapter 8 Relief

**AN: Canada's back! Finally! Now that it's all cleared up as to what actually happened that night (for us, anyway) it's time to see what he decides to do about the little snippet he accidentally witnessed. **

::::::::::::

Canada woke up the next day abruptly. He had collapsed onto his bed last night fully clothed, and with no regard to posture what-so-ever. He was regretting that now. His arms were wrapped tightly around his pillow, twisting him to face one way, while his legs were intertwined in an unseemly fashion, most determined to be throwing him in the exact opposite direction. Suffice to say, his back was not pleased that his limbs couldn't agree which way he should be sleeping, and it protested with pains of stiffness. His white semi-formal, button-down shirt was wrinkled and clammy, still half tucked into his black jeans. Canada tried to unravel himself from the twist of sheets that had coiled itself around his middle like a boa constrictor, inhibited greatly by his upset muscles and joints and a terrible head ach. How long had he slept?

He managed to roll over with a groan and stared at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It read 21:45 pm. Canada groaned again and wriggled off the bed, jarred slightly by the feeling of hard shoes hitting plush blankets. How had he managed to sleep for twelve hours? There was an impatient pawing out side his door, and a little grunt. Kumajiro. Damn it. He had probably been there all night and all morning, scratching to get his attention. Why had he forgotten to take care of him? Normally that responsibility was like second nature to him. He pulled himself into a sitting position, clutching at his head and squinted out his bedroom window to be greeted by the sight of his dilapidated sports shed.

"_Oh!"_ He squeaked to himself. He remembered now. Kumajiro's scratching became more frantic as he heard his master's voice, and the little grunts were growing louder. Canada lifted himself off the bed, onto his feet, mind racing, what should he do? He was panicking all over again, the gravity of the scene he saw weighing on his steps like a slab of concrete as he walked over to his bedroom door and opened it. Kumajiro gave a short dog-like bark of gratitude and stood up on his hind legs, pawing at Canada's chest. Canada scooped him up in one arm absently and wandered out into the hall, heading for the kitchen by pure instinct.

Kumajiro flopped out of Canada's grasp and trotted over to the refrigerator, looking up at Canada expectantly, entirely unconcerned for his master's inner turmoil. As far as the bear was concerned, it was just another thing in the way of his breakfast. He expected it to be that good steak he'd been smelling all night long too, to make up for the dinner he didn't get the night before. When the man did nothing but stand in the door way, eyes clouded and preoccupied, Kumajiro yelps shrilly to snap him back to attention. What was wrong with him, anyway? Kumajiro whined loudly again and Canada seemed to get it this time.

His movements all seemed to be a fraction of a second slower today, perhaps he was still groggy, he reasoned out in his mind. It wasn't because he was he was dreading making a decision or anything. Nope, not Canada. _He_ wasn't afraid of the idea that America might have… No.

That was just his imagination running wild again. It was always doing that, conjuring up some far-fetched scenario, most of which involved the zombie apocalypse and robot uprisings of late. He was as big a day dreamer as his brother on most days, he could just keep his fantasies separate from his reality. Well, usually. No mater what he did now, however, he couldn't quite get it out of his head that America had savagely beat North Dakota and feared he'd let something stupid slip out of his mouth sooner or later if he didn't get it straightened out ASAP.

Somehow, the idea of confirming one way or another scared him more then keeping to the images running through his head.

Oh god, he was really going to do it, wasn't he? He was hovering over the phone next to the back door taking up stance to keep an eye on Kumajiro who wandered around in the back yard, his hunger having been sated. Canada's finger was poised to press the speed dial number America was assigned to, wavering slightly as he worked up the courage to press it. Vaguely, the thought passed through his head that he needed to update his home phone, this one was about four decades old after all… Quickly, before any other thought could enter his head and disrupt his nerves, he jabbed the button. He put the receiver to his ear, trained to wait there like that by years and years of phone use. With each ring, he tried to convince himself that this was nothing more then a friendly warning, just a brotherly heads up.

_Ring._

Yes, just, he just had to know if his brother had been getting these sorts of things in his place.

_Rings._

For all he knew, there was a serial sports-equipment assaulter out there.

_Ring._

And he had the kids to think about; his brother's and his own.

_Ring._

Wouldn't want anybody else to be as hurt as North Dakota, would we?

_Ring._

Best to be on the alert with this type of bizarre crime taking place.

"Helloooo, United States of America speaking; land of the free, and home of the _awesome_!"

Canada started, shocked out of his daze. In the back of his mind, he had been hoping that his invisible status might somehow apply to his phone calls too. "Ah! Um, h-hi, America! It's Canada…"

America laughs his trademark, boisterous laugh like there was some sort of inside joke about the call that Canada wasn't in on. "Hey, dude, what can I do you for?" He says cheerful, warm, and good natured. Like always. Like normal.

Canada was a little taken aback. America certainly didn't sound like someone who just did something wrong. He was sure America would be a little bit skittish, perhaps as bit fearful at his call. Then again, America had always been a good actor… Canada then felt sheepish, and blushed at his own stupidity. This was his brother for god's sake. It was his America, _America_. He was inane, naive, insensitive, and brash, but he was a good person at heart. Canada cut off his mental slap to himself, there was still a mystery to be found out, he'd berate himself for letting his mind run wild on him later.

Canada really was going to get it all off his chest at once in a calm, mature manor without resorting to accusations, but, of course, things rarely turn out so well with America.

"Well, someone broke into my shed the other day and-" Canada started and was cut off almost immediately.

"A break in? Was anything stolen? Are you afraid? Are you hurt in any way? Are the perps after you? Do you owe the mob money? Do you need a hero? Don't worry, Canada, you've got a hero for a brother! That gives you special privileges, puts you right on the top of the list. Aren't you lucky? What'd'ya need me to do? Track 'em down? Watch your windows while you sleep? I'll get 'em Canada, the hero never looses!" America said this all in one breath, his hero mode having been tripped hardcore.

"Wha-? Um, no, I'm fine, and nothing was taken, although, my favorite hokey stick was completely ruined…" There were a few more questions in there, but he figured those were mostly rhetorical. America would make believe he was in all kinds of trouble and show up at his house unannounced to "protect" him regardless of how he answered, so he might as not answer at all.

"AH HA!" America shouted, and Canada got the vivid image of America pumping his fist into the air in triumph, imagination working double time to find the worst possible scenario for Canada to be in. "Vandalism! Those scum bags are trying to intimidate you! You witnessed a murder, didn't you, and now they're trying to keep you quiet!"

Canada almost dropped the receiver in his surprise. Maybe America _was_ involved in this after all.

"Um, no. I didn't witness a murder, but there was an awful lot of blood…" Canada fidgeted with the cord of the phone in agitation, nervousness returning to him.

America was silent.

"America?" Canada prompted hesitantly after a minute of two of only the faint sound of his brother's breathing as reassurance that the other had not simply dropped the phone and walked away.

"… _Seriously?_" He finally responded quietly, all the kidding and teasing so prevalent in his speech suddenly missing.

"Yeah." Canada said lamely, then realizing America was probably more interested in an explanation then an awkward silence, he hastened to tell the story as tactfully as he could.

"Yeah." He said, more strongly this time. "It looks like… an animal was beaten off with… My hokey stick."

"Well that's just plain _weird._" Was America's response. He sounded as confused by Canada's findings as Canada was.

Yeah." Canada said again. "I just thought I'd call and ask if anybody had been attacked by a particularly vicious wild animal, or if there's been any weirdoes around your place since it happened so close to the boarder and all…"

America let out a contemplative hum. "Plenty of wild animal attacks, and plenty of weirdoes, here- _you know me_- but nothing that sticks out in particular. You called anybody else about this?"

_No._ "The proper authorities have been told, yes, America, I'm not you." Canada scowled at himself and the phone. Just there he sounded a bit like…

"Geeze, don't have a cow, _England_. I was just making sure." Canada bit his lip. OK, so he was being _somewhat_ snappish; that was perfectly natural in his position. He couldn't help it, it was just sort of a reaction he had to America sometimes, most people had it, really.

"Sorry, I just…" Canada stopped mid-sentence. There was something more important then America's sensitivity! "Oh! How did North Dakota get hurt?" He blurted out.

Canada was suddenly painfully aware that that was something that might fall out of America's own lips with ease, given the situation was reversed. Damn it. He had to go and say something stupid. They were brothers alright.

"What?" America sounded bewildered by the sudden question.

"Er. Well, you see, I was tracking some blood trails and, um, no. Um, yeah, and I happened to wander by his place and a saw… through the window… He was all bandaged up… It looked pretty bad…" Canada spluttered. Well, _that_ was all kinds of convincing, _wasn't it? _Canada bit his lip, unconsciously holding his breath, waiting to see if America let what he was doing, exactly, slide. He didn't know if he was ready to go into that kind of detail for his own sake, and there was no way America would miss his suspicions then.

"_Ohmigawd! _Dakota!" America breathed out. There was a panic in his voice, for once having the proper reaction to the situation. Yes, America, _ohmigawd_ was right.

"America? Are you alright?" Canada asked, knowing full well that he wasn't. How could he be?

"Canada!" America shouted like he had forgotten who he was on the phone with. _Typical._ "You stay safe, ok? I gotta go."

"OK." Canada replied in a small voice. America hung up without saying goodbye.

Canada imagined he was rushing out his door, flinging his jacket dramatically around his shoulders, unnecessary as it was with the pleasant weather, not bothering to shut the door he just burst through as he raced out into the street, like a scene from a movie. A bad American movie. Canada smiled to himself, relieved. _Yes, America, you go be the hero. _He thought to himself and hung up the telephone, mind at ease that America had it covered, thoughts turning to breakfast. He wasn't in the mood for pancakes just then. Perhaps he'd have a good ol' American donut…

::::::::::::

**AN: I was so excited to write for Canada again (that and America being silly) but now that the chapter's all done and written, I'm a little sad. Canada doesn't pop up in the story again for a while… ): **


	9. Chapter 9 Wisconsin

**AN: Late update is late. Shoot, I'm sorry, guys. I have no excuse for this one other then writers block. I feel bad about that.**

::::::::::::

His involvement was (as was plain to see) inevitable. She (being as close to him as she was) knew how to make him believe it was a good idea, and he (being as close to her as he was) knew he would have liked it without the pretty words. Simply put, they were similar people, with similar tastes, and similar follies; but "simply put" never seemed to hold much of a light to their relationship. Their story from the beginning entails hours of togetherness; they ate together, drank together, slept together, bathed together, laughed together, cried together, were sick together, fought together, and some would say that they even grew mad together.

Their madness _is_ very similar.

Wisconsin sighed, reflecting on his involvement in the game. Every once in a while, he had to stop and really consider why he was doing this; was it because he truly enjoyed torturing and frightening his siblings? Or was he simply just falling into the familiar pattern of being snug right up against Minnesota in their adventures? Of course, the answer was always yes; yes he did enjoy the pain and fear, even if he didn't agree with how she was causing them. He always did say the two of them had the same illnesses, different symptoms. A smirk graced Wisconsin's lips; OCD, Paranoia, passive-aggressive tendencies, sado-masochistic interests- who's mental stability was he questioning again?

_Her's_ of course. What kind of crazy arranges things by _proper color spectrum order? _Obviously, the more sane thing to do would be arrange it by alphabetical order. And why would you bother spending time worrying that everyone was thinking bad thoughts about you behind your back? It's much more natural to be worried about political melt-downs, then social. It boggles his mind that Minnesota would put a smile on her face as she plotted your slow, painful demise. Wisconsin would never do such a thing; he'd just lend his smile to everyone but you, he needn't hide his displeasure, just his ill-intent, after all. Wisconsin's smirk widened into a full-blown smile. He could grasp all to well her sado-masochistic side; it was why they could bicker unto the early hours and feel good walking home hand-in-hand.

Wisconsin giggled to himself. Thinking about the game always cheered him up like that in the end, it made him feel like he and his many brothers and sisters were cut from the same cloth after all.

He was filing paperwork. There was always more paper work to fill. This wasn't anything he had to do to fulfill the duties of being the state of Wisconsin, no, it was much more fun then that. He never liked filling our paper work before, but there was a certain joy to this; the same excitement a student might feel about passing notes in class. It was a forbidden work, work only a handful of them were doing. Most of it was charts, statistics, surveys, and _personal testaments _of players in the game. There he sat, happily mapping his fellow state's deteriorating mental health. Soon, very soon, they'd all be where he and Minnesota were- somewhere just left of "OK" and a little beyond caring. Kansas was there already, and Texas- _yes, the Texas_- he was embracing the insanity without question! Who would have thought, Texas, the hero among heroes, would be so eager to fall into Minnesota's little villainous clutches?

And Minnesota was a _villain. _Perhaps she wasn't in the traditional, comic-book-villain sense; she didn't have henchmen, and she didn't go about breaking (many) laws, or constructing master plans to take over the world, hell, she didn't even have an agenda aside from getting _satisfaction_, but her aims for herself, for her siblings, those were nothing short of diabolical.

_Who can aim to break a person free from their sanity and be considered anything but evil?_

Wisconsin was delighted, happy, _enthused_ to be in ever greater company. Having the same few people who can relate to your… _unique_ perspective gets just a tad boring year after year. He had his eye on New York, currently. Why did it have to take so much longer the older they were? If New York fell, the rest of the Original Thirteen would surely follow. He was like their safe-guard, how they gauged how far to let themselves fall. _But New York was so goddamned resistant to falling! _He and Minnesota really did seem to be ill together, and today's illness was _obsession._

Oh, how she _obsessed _over Texas, oh, how she _obsessed_ over the sensation of pain, _oh, how she obsessed over spreading the love!_

Wisconsin obsessed, oh, yes, he obsessed just the same. How he obsessed over _their pain,_ how he obsessed over _their insanity,_ how he _obsessed over their mutual understanding!_ He put down his pen, and placed the last slip of statistics into it's proper folder, and carefully locked it away. It wouldn't do for these documents to be scattered around, would it?

A muffled moan a vague thrashing permeated the walls of his home office from the next room over. It was about time his guest woke up. He pushed back his chair and walked with an easy saunter to the source of the noise. Doors opened and closed, crisp and clean little clicks all the warning that there were in use at all.

"Good morning, New York." He said calmly as if New York wasn't gagged and chained to the bed-post of his spare room. "I know we don't have an appointment together for another month, but I thought we could both do with a little practice."

New York screamed around his gag, he knew what was going to happen.

::::::::::::

**AN: Oh, Wisconsin. You know Minnesota a little too well for your own good… And there's nothing really going on in this one either, sheesh. Well, at least now we have a little background on one of the rule-makers of the game. For the most part, this story has been mostly Minnesota-centric, BUT FEAR NOT! IT WILL NOT ALWAYS BE THAT WAY! It's just easier to get her, and all her relations out of the way first. Later on it'll be a little more Texas-centric for a while, then it'll even out.**

**AND, AGAIN, I'M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG TO COME OUT!**


	10. Chapter 10 Stories and Feelings

**AN: And this is the chapter in which we find out that Texas sure knows how to tell a story…**

::::::::::::

It was a hot, smoldering evening, and the sweat shone off the men's bare shoulders and ruined the women's perfectly applied make-up. There were eight of them altogether, four of them gathered on a quaint little porch, sipping at quickly-warming soft-drinks of varying flavors and popular brands (that they seemed to collectively refer to as "coke") and four of them congregated around a barbeque, swapping stories and culinary techniques. Music floated around the unintentionally divided crowd, flitting about the ears of the party goers, but not staying long enough to properly entice them, just long enough to squeeze in a word or two before moving on to the next conversation. Despite the comfortable atmosphere, and the light-hearted, causal nature of the get-together, there was a tension settling in on them; settling on all of them but one, that is.

It was not as though the Southern States disliked Texas, quite the contrary, they all held respect and love for their brother; it was just that he was so closely associated with a source of great anxiety. _The Game._ Yes, it was something they could not deny; he was one of the rule-makers, and the fear he wrought during their play was not easy to forget. They took pains to try, to remember that he is one of them, not some far-off over-seer, not some god-like authoritative figure which had a mind to do nothing but cause them suffering, but some were having a harder time of it then others. It was stifling to those few, fear drumming against their heads and hearts and- even as they tried to combat it- slowly changing the way they treated him.

Texas (bless his heart) was oblivious to it all.

Texas was lounging comfortably on a glider, back against the armrest, arm slung over the back, one leg resting easily on the vacant seat next to him while the other extended to the floor, gently rocking him back and forth. He sat with his drink in hand half raised to his lips, untroubled by the rising note of tension in the conversation around him, poised as if a king on this throne, over seeing his pawn's movements. It was not an unusual air for him to have hanging around him- he had always perched in regal fashion- what was unsettling to the states about it now was that they now felt the pressure of the pawns they had seen him command so often.

For the most part, the conversation was trivial; sports, the weather, meaningless celebrity gossip, but there were questions so heavy between the women's chattering, and the men's gruff jesting it would soon become tangible. Questions like _why?_ _Why? WHY?_ It was an unspoken fixed at the end of every statement, a silent inquiry that was trying desperately to slip out that was not helped by Texas' contributions at all.

Somehow, it managed to come back to Minnesota, always Minnesota. Minnesota never does this, Minnesota said she liked that, Minnesota wanted one of those, I should ask Minnesota that. Minnesota, Minnesota, Minnesota. Minnesota and all his pet names for her; Minnie is cute, Minn is so silly sometimes, 'Sota says "pop" instead of soda; isn't that just hilarious?

It eventually became too much, and someone broke and asked the damned question; the South has never been good at holding tongues after all.

"Hey Texas?" Mississippi ventured, the one to cave under the curiosity, interrupting nothing in particular.

Texas set his gaze on his brother, it sat there heavy, challenging. "Yeah, Mississippi?" He responded calm and nonchalant.

"What's you deal with Minnesota anyway?" The question held an innocent connotation, as if Mississippi was truly unaware of the Game they played.

They all held their breath, the music playing on in the background, decidedly ignoring the thickness of the pause and cheerily blathering on its tune. Texas regarded Mississippi with a slow blink and a tilt of his head.

"I like her, is all. Why do you ask?" He said, giving an equally as innocent answer.

"Well…" Mississippi hesitated, finding a way to ask without offending, or being too vague. "It's just it seems a little out of the blue- one day you barely even know she exists, the next, you're all about her. Why is that?"

Texas tilted his head back and finished off his luke-warm drink in a single gulp before leaning forward and setting his glass down on a near-by end table with a small chuckle.

"Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt to tell 'ya… In fact, I've been thinking a lot about it lately, and I think I can put it in words pretty well now." He said, and the south breathed a sign of relief, the question did not anger him.

"I was angry one day; and I mean real angry. I was confused and scared and angry." Texas assumed a far-off look they had come to associate with remembering defeat. "I was bound to lash out at someone, and Minnie was in the wrong place at the wrong time." Texas' brothers and sisters shared looks, they knew what day that was; he had come back bruised and bloody and laughed in their faces when they asked what was wrong.

"I said all kinds of nasty things to her," Texas continued. "And she didn't like that one bit." He laughed here. "See, I had forgotten what a little spirit she was when we fought last- the girl doesn't back down if it'll kill her, and, well, when it came right down to it, I was lookin' for a fight, so that's what she gave me."

The look in his eye was full of soft affection, and his words were ringing with endearment. "A fight" was too light a word for what Minnesota had given him. It was more like she had stirred up the ashes of a long-dead fire and found a coal still hot and red to bring it back with a rage. It had always been assumed that Minnesota was a well-meaning buffoon- cheery and agreeable, but never quite grasping the situation- until Texas had come back that night in a craze.

"Well," Texas interrupted any thoughts his fellow Southerners may have been lost in. "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, but I can say she showed me a face that I had never seen before- it was not Minnesota as I knew her, and I was instantly enamored." Texas stood and gracefully stepped over to the rail of the porch, lightly grasping a pillar with one hand and ghosting over his eye with the other, his expression still that of one in the past.

"She wanted to do it again, and I instantly agreed, how could I say no to that? I went away from her, giddy, excited, you all saw it." Texas said, turning to his audience, they remained quiet, waiting for him to finish. "But then, I thought to myself… _'What have I done? My sister, the North, that was not Minnesota, that was not her.' _And I fell to my knees and prayed to God." Texas raised his palms in front of himself, as if begging at the mention of their god.

"I Prayed, head bowed, day after day, and received no answer; I fixated on what she had become- I studied her day after day, becoming more and more frustrated." Texas's eyes swept over his brothers and sister, a stern look gracing his features.

"Her name is the Dakota word meaning 'Sky Tinted Water.' She is known as the North Star State and the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes and, by her own definition of a lake, she has well over that number. She was born the thirty-second child of America on May 11, 1858, she's the twelfth largest state and her Capital is St. Paul… All these things I learned about her were trivial, nothing, no battle records, no demographics, no study of tourists rates, no cultural analysis told me what I needed to know." He paused again here, challenging the others to question his diligence, or sneer at his facts. Again, they remained silent. He continued on.

"It became to much for me, and I cursed the heavens, I opened my eyes and raised my head in defiance, ready to look God in the eye and curse him too, but then I saw it, and it all made perfect sense." He broke into a grateful smile and his words having all the conviction of a preacher as he spoke.

"God had been answering me all along, if I had only just looked _up!_ There, I saw the face of God, and I knew, _I knew _what I had seen that day in Minnesota!" He laughed and it was joyous and full of true happiness. "And I knew why they call her 'Sky Tinted Water'; she reflects the heavens!" He raised his hand in the air, as if in praise, his eyes closed, expression serene.

Slowly he lowered his arms back down to his sides, then opened his eyes, they were clear and lucid, no light of madness in sight. "She is as beautiful as our lord, his perfection is reflected onto her. How could I do anything but revere her?" He turned and reassumed his seat his explanation given, and the South, for a second, forgot that they were pawns for the sacrificing, and praised their king.

::::::::::::

**AN: And now we know how Texas sees Minnesota- crazily. I don't know if this makes Minnesota seem more like the bad guy, or Texas seem more unstable… **

**You know, I have this image in my head about how states view each other, but I actually don't know what stereotypes are common place, and what are just a local thing for me. It has made me do a lot of research on the matter. **

**I started with my two biggest re-occurring characters; Minnesota and Texas, and believe me you, the internet is not kind to either of them. **

**Apparently Texas is one big cesspool of ignorant, gun hoarding, racist fat asses and Minnesota is full of air-headed, blonde-hair-blue-eyed soccer moms toting their children from ice-fishing to turtle racing on a nice, snowy, suburban afternoon. Also, they both have THE MOST OBNOXIOUS ACCENTS IN THE WORLD. Neither of which make them out to be very intelligent in the long run.**

**I don't buy most of it; especially the accent bit, I kind of like both of 'em and I'm not of the opinion that an accent really dictates one's intelligence. But, my fine readers, what do you think about Texas and Minnesota? Or anybody else for that matter, what stereotypes stick out in your head of America, or American states? I'm interested to find out.**


	11. Chapter 11 The Truth is for Another Day

**AN: Finally! We're wrapping up the little Dakota drama! (Kind of.) I thought I'd never get to it!**

::::::::::::

America's heart was pounding, faster and faster in check with his rising speedometer. He had temporarily seized a police squad car, and was flying down the sparsely populated Dakotan highway the lights on and siren blaring. The world be damned if he was going to be stopped for anything to get to his child. Why the _hell_ hadn't he been notified in the first place? In what fucked up situation would Canada know about his kid's state of health before he did? This had never happened to him before; even during the Civil War, he knew who was getting hurt and by whom. So why are these things passing by his notification now?

He was now flying though a quiet little suburb, in that little gray area where suburbs tended to be, neither terribly far from a major city (in this case, Fargo) nor terribly close. These pockets of calm outside of chaos were where most of his children made their homes; as indecisive as he was as to whether or not they wanted to join the fray of humanity, or run from it's heartbreak. It was the middle ground, and a heaven.

But America wasn't think about how he was disturbing the peace, or stirring the dormant pot of gossip and controversy; he wasn't considering the finer points of lawn care as he forewent the street to cut through yards to reach his destination faster, he wasn't even worried when other police cars started to follow in the most hesitant manor a squad car can go. He was thinking solely of his son.

It was in this frantic, single minded madness that America squealed to a halt in front of the unassuming cracker-box home. It was a familiar home, like a picture out of a magazine, white picket fence and all. America crashed through that quaint little gate and stormed across the perfect, green lawn, past the innocent row of flowers to either side of the little concrete pathway and right through the benign beige door.

"NORTH! SOUTH!" America screamed. It was quiet. America blinked. He was expecting one of them to come hurdling around the corner, upset and confused, or at least some gun-totting villains he would have to wrestle to save his indisposed child.

He picked his way across the carpeted floor, ignoring the hat stand in favor of peaking his head into the nearby closet. When he was satisfied that it was vacant of people, he scurried over and flattened himself against a short wall and peeped around the corner. He was looking into a living room equipped with a fireplace, two sofas, and a glass coffee table with all the magazine, tissue box, and kick-knack fixings.

America scurried none-to-gracefully over to one of the couches and peeked behind it. What he saw was a stray candy wrapper and a bit of lint. He would have been disappointed there were no terrorists hiding there had he not been so keen to find head or tail of one of his Dakotas; preferable both head and tail at the same time and in one piece. The absence of noise was creating a buzz in his hears as America tried desperately to pick up even the faintest of movement in the air.

What seemed like a few decades later, America decided to inch his way across the room into a dining room of sorts. There was a table, any way, but where there would have been a dish cabinet or perhaps even chairs, an alarming collection of guns had amassed. (Some of which America vaguely recognized as being things he may or may not have forbid any of his children from owning.) A quick sweep of the eye confirmed there was no one there, no baddie or son, neither living nor gutted carcass. It was just a room full of guns. America moved on, urged by the stillness of the house and no longer stalled by fear, the adrenaline focusing his eyes to a point of alertness he didn't know he could achieve and directing his mind in a more rational manor then most would believe.

Next up was the kitchen. Everything was taken into account. He perused through notes on the kitchen calendar, looking for key words like "hospital bills" or "important meeting" and breezed through cupboards and other potential hiding places with a military grade precision. He was good at that. This became a mission with an objective, his duty as a country aiding his duty as a father as he searched. The kitchen, proving to be unpopulated as well, was left behind for a small hall and he was full circle; directly ahead was the front door, to his right, the living room. America, again, hugged the wall, only this time, taking to an opening opposite the living room, down another hall. To his left again, there was a den, full of deep browns, a bar, sports paraphernalia, and large screen TV's. He searched though it, robotic, mechanical, unfeeling and another room was cleared. It was back into the hall when a door cracked open in front of him.

He was on high alert all his senses screaming, groping for a weapon he only offhandedly knew he didn't have. In his mind's eye, he was seeing the enemy, middle eastern men still with the dust and sand of the region blowing about their guns, Vietcong guerillas, all manor of World War two-era uniform clad face-less men, all ready to attack, _all past enemies_. His muscles tensed, and recoiled, ready to counter as the door opened in slow motion in his reality. A blonde head peaked around the frame and a feminine squeak popped the bubble of tension surrounding America.

"Oh, daddy! It's you!" The figure emerged as the familiar face of Minnesota. America blinked in surprise and took a step back. "I was wondering who it was that was yelling." She said, smooth and innocent, as if nothing was wrong here.

"Minn-Minnesota," America stammered out. "What're you…?"

"Taking care of North Dakota of course. He can't very well take care of himself, what with what he's managed to do to himself and South can't be here _all_ the time." Minnesota took a scolding tone, and shimmied out of the door, shutting it behind herself without America managing to see into the bedroom at all. America gaped some more.

"What did he…?" America was stunned at how calm Minnesota was taking this, wasn't her brother _hurt?_

"Oh!" She quipped up as if she had just realized something important. "You didn't hear about it, did you?"

"Um…" America shook his head dumbly. He really wished Minnesota wouldn't ramble so much and get to the point.

Minnesota laughed behind her hand, a little disarming titter. "Oh, well, he did try his best to keep it hush-hush- it _is_ embarrassing…" She giggled again and smiled up at her father. "Well, you see, he was helping at his zoo, and a mountain lion just gave birth to cubs not too long ago, and well, he was carrying one, and did you know them little guys have sharp little claws?" America was about ready to burst, did she do this on purpose?

"_And?"_ He prompted before Minnesota could go into another fit of daydreaming she liked to slip intro.

"Ah!" She swayed slightly, having been awaken before she could really drift off. "Oh, North Dakota, he tripped, and the poor little creature decided to cling to his face! Isn't that just the cutest way to get injured ever?" America was so relieved, he could cry. "Anyway, I don't think he wants to face you right now, I told him it's silly to hide, but he's so embarrassed!"

Minnesota went on, showing every indication she had more to say, but before she could get another word out, America pulled her into a hug, muffling her face against his chest. He laughed like the hero he is, holding Minnesota to himself to try to hide the tears that really were falling down his face. Nothing terrible had happened, and he was so happy. And Minnesota… Minnesota just put her arms around her father as if she knew, as if she understood; and all was right with the world.

::::::::::::

**AN: Dakotas, oh, Dakotas, you sneaky little guys. Minnesota to the rescue even if you hate her, huh?**


End file.
